


Dont Leave Me

by NotEvenCloseToStraight



Series: Short Stories! [19]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Bisexual John, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Downey Films, First Kiss, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, POV John Watson, Rating May Change, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 16:08:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12844731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotEvenCloseToStraight/pseuds/NotEvenCloseToStraight
Summary: “Dont leave me.”The words startle me, and I glance up from my reading to cast an eye at the man sprawled in haphazard fashion across his favorite chair.“Holmes.” I inquire, curious, for I had assumed the man to be asleep for quite some time now. “Are you speaking to me?”Surely he hadnt been speaking to me, such plaintive words muttered in such a sad tone.“Are you sleeping?” I try again, to keep my own thoughts from traipsing inevitably down the path that only ever ends in despair- the forbidden ideas that accompany the place of Holmes in my mind and heart and in my darkest hours, I will admit they have taken root in my very soul.“Holmes!” My voice is admittedly sharper this time, too much for the situation, but I must attempt to keep myself from– from yearning. From wishing that perhaps this great man cares for me in the way I care for him…(AN: I feel like there could be more chapters to this?? we will see)





	Dont Leave Me

“Dont leave me.” 

The words startle me, and I glance up from my reading to cast an eye at the man sprawled in haphazard fashion across his favorite chair. 

“Holmes.” I inquire, curious, for I had assumed the man to be asleep for quite some time now. “Are you speaking to me?” 

Surely he hadnt been speaking to  _me_ , such plaintive words muttered in such a sad tone.

 _Dont leave me_. 

I am aware of course, more than anyone, that behind the caustic words, the razor sharp wit, and general disdain for anything society deemed appropriate– the great detective Holmes is very nearly a broken man, slave to a mind that never slows, an intellect that hungers for  _more_ and a heart that loves either not at all, or in a manner that consumes his very soul. 

But with these words–  _Dont leave me_ – he sounds as if he is begging.  _Begging_ , and yet he sounds as if he has already seen the bleak future when all this begging is for naught, and whatever he had wanted has slipped through his fingers. 

“Are you sleeping?” I try again, to keep my own thoughts from traipsing inevitably down the path that only ever ends in despair- the forbidden ideas that accompany the place of  _Holmes_ in my mind and heart and in my darkest hours, I will admit they have taken root in my very soul. 

“Holmes!” My voice is admittedly sharper this time, too much for the situation, but I must attempt to keep myself from– from  _yearning_. From wishing that perhaps this great man cares for me in the way I care for him…

“Don’t leave me.” there they are again, these words that are so distressing in their simplicity, and Holmes sounds  _exhausted_ , he sounds washed out and pale, the usual vigor coloring his voice completely lacking, leaving things fragile and thready and in this moment–  _frightening_ in their implications. 

“She is lovely.” Holmes continues, and now a hand lifts to pat at his unruly hair, the dark curls in worse disarray than usual, evidence of the depression that has seemed to grip him in its talons these last several weeks. 

“Mary.” he clarifies when I remain silent. “She is lovely, a perfect match for you in temperament, and she brings about a softness in you that I–” a hitching breath, nearly a sob and my fingers tighten on the arm rests to the point of pain as I wait for him to continue. 

“A softness that I– that I will miss in my own life.” a silence, an eternity before he speaks again– 

– “I suppose I should be saving these confessions for your wedding, so I might raise a glass in your honor and blather on about true love, about  _l'amour vrai,_ but I have found myself unable to put pen to paper for these sentiments and it is… vexing.” 

“I see.” I answer, all the while not seeing at all, for as always, Holmes is speaking in riddles, turns of phrase that obscure his true intent, and though I should be accustomed to this after so long as colleagues and friends, after his startlingly plain– _Dont leave me_ – I find myself frustrated with his circumlocution, and wish he would speak plainly, as he does when he is deducing, when he is peeling back the layers of a mystery until all is laid bare. 

“My dear Watson.” there is a distinct fondness in his tone now, a warmth that is present only here in our rooms, away from the watchful eyes of society. Perhaps in private moments after he has solved yet another case, when adrenaline is coursing and we are still laughing as if we are quite mad over the brilliance of one Sherlock Holmes, and the inevitable stupidity of a criminal to believe he can escape consequences for whichever heinous crime has been committed. 

It is those moments when I find myself drawn impossibly closer to him, when my errant hands drift towards his body, when my lips purse with the thought to embrace– and he calls me  _dear Watson_ as if he would be agreeable to those things I dream about in the dark–

“Dear Watson.” Holmes says again. “As always, you see but you do not observe.” 

“Holmes–” I prepare to argue, as I tend to do, but he waves me off. 

“Tell me, Doctor.” he begins again. “I shall tell you my symptoms and you may diagnose me, hm?” 

“Very well.” I sigh and put my book down. In these interminable few moments since Holmes first spoke, I have not read a single word, though my mind has traveled miles as it dissects every nuance of the sentences we have shared this evening. “Your symptoms.” I prompt and wait with studied patience for him to begin. 

“I have no appetite.” he says shortly and I refrain from commenting, for even on a good day, convincing Holmes to slow down long enough to eat in nigh impossible. 

“I want to stay in the dark.” Quieter now, and I sit up straighter in concern. “To be outside with people, the sunlight– I cannot bring myself to stomach it. I prefer it here in my rooms, shutting the world away.” 

“Continue.” I make a vague motion with my hands, but he is not looking this way, so he does not notice. 

“I find myself lonely, even in the company of others, for I am never in the company of the one I want. Or at least not in the way I long to be. Not with– not with the one I  _want_.” The last word is emphasized, even as it is whispered and naturally I pick up on it. 

“The one you want.” I repeat, and my heart–  _traitorous thing_ – beats faster within me. “I– er–.” 

“Mary is lovely.” Holmes sits up now, pins me with that all consuming gaze, staring into my heart and soul and searching–

“She is  _lovely_.” he says yet again, as if repetition will resolve something within him that disagrees. “And yet I think I hate her, for she has come into your life and taken your affection from me. I am not trying to suggest that your for me affection is anything other than perfectly proprietary, Doctor, but I will admit to–” 

Now his eyes shutter, and fall away, he seems to shrink in upon himself, folding further into the chair. “I will admit to  _hoping_ , to thinking perhaps you might–” he falls silent, picking at a thread on his trousers.

Then, “Please.” he is begging again, and the word brings me off my own chair, crossing the sitting room until I can kneel before him. 

“Don’t leave me.” his eyes close entirely now, and I cannot keep myself from touching him, my palms on his knees, and it seems unnatural for an innocent touch to  _burn_ so hot, but at this moment, I swear it does. 

“I wont leave you.” I wish I had lovely words in this moment,  _better_ words, flowery phrases to explain to this man, to this wondrous soul the intensity in which I want– no,  _need_ – him, but I only have these four, so I say them again. 

“I wont leave you.” 

I see just the beginnings of that beguiling smile, just a hint of what is surely a full fledged flush in that lovely skin, before his lips are on my own and we are tumbling backwards together, my head hitting the floor with a thump that is ignored in favor of bringing that tempting mouth to my own again and again. 

Holmes is lying entirely against me now, his hands in my hair and the tug and pull at the strands is the most wonderful thing I have ever felt, the novel feel of a mans strength and angles completely different than the feel of a womans curves, and I find that I enjoy it more, now that it is  _this_ man in my arms. 

“I need to bathe.” Holmes pulls away to chuckle, and I smile at the mussed hair and joy in his eyes. “But then we should continue–” he leaves the sentence unfinished and leans down to kiss me again, sliding his tongue between my lips in way that is no small hint as to what he wishes to do. 

When he presses against me hesitantly, and I feel the line of his arousal against my thigh, it is the most natural thing in the world to lift myself into him as well, and the gasp that leaves that kiss reddened mouth has me tightening my fingers on his waist, urging him down to me yet again. 

“We have time later.” he whispers, and it is nearly a question, so I nod as best I can to assure him that I want this as badly as he does, if not more so, for I am feeling rather like a man who was not aware he has been starving and now has been handed a feast.

“I wont leave you.” I promise. “Sherlock–” his breath catches when I use his given name. “Sherlock.” I say it once more if only to see him smile again. “I will be here always.” 


End file.
